


No Smoking

by Venturous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Come At Once, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/pseuds/Venturous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a bit off his game after his drug relapse, but John is there to help him recover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Smoking

**Author's Note:**

> for the wonderful prompt from tazlet, which got a bit lost in the heat of the moment: 'And recks not his own rede.' I apologize for not making better use of the quote.

Sherlock leant against the fireplace, fiddling with a cigarette, ignoring John’s disapproving glare. His hair was still damp and his dressing gown clung to him, post shower. John pretended to ignore this. He was determined to remain angry.

“How could you, Sherlock? I don’t buy this bullshit about a case, I really don’t. Why don’t you tell me what is really going on? Why can’t you just be straight on with me?” He sure hoped the pleading tone didn’t leak through into his voce, but as he watched Holmes study him he suspected he had failed. As usual. 

Sherlock studied him like a bug, that was familiar, but the clarity of the gaze was a bit off, lazy almost. John supposed it was the lingering opiates in his system. Despite or perhaps because of the Subutex treatment John had procured for him, Sherlock’s razor acuity was off by a few hairs. John wondered how he could possibly use this to his advantage. 

He watched Sherlock waving his arm about, criticizing his ability at subtle perception and paltry knowledge of international affairs, and John allowed the insults to slide off. Since Sherlock’s return John had reacquired his cloak of oiled feathers, knowing when to let those petty barbs find no purchase. 

He watched the Great Detective, compromised by biochemistry and arrogance, watched the navy silk clung to his long limbs, and certainly noticed when Sherlock plunked himself on the sofa like the drama queen he was. He sprawled his legs apart and the robe parted revealing long thighs and more, drug-addled mind having lost his usual fastidious modesty.

John stared. Sherlock noticed. Then with the faintest smirk, began to light the cigarette. 

“What do you think you’re DOING?”

Watson attempted to emulate Sherlock’s trademark stomp over the coffee table and lunged to grab the fag from Sherlock’s long fingers, but alas, he over-shot and, losing his balance, fell flailing onto his flat mate, sprawling across his lap. Sherlock seized the opportunity – er, John, by the hips and placed him essentially over his knee. 

With one hand splayed against his back Sherlock effectively held John in place, despite his attempts to right himself. Watson blushed a furious red as he realized the pose he had arrived in. When raising his torso proved fruitless Watson began to kick and seek purchase with his short but powerful legs. Until Sherlock seized the outermost limb and hugged it close to him, pinning his flat mate into his compromising position. 

“What do you think you’re…” John sputtered and flailed ineffectively, unable to see but quite sure that Sherlock was grinning. 

All this writhing about was having a predictable effect. John realized he was hard. And that Sherlock was aroused by the proceedings. But wait, this was an opportunity. John stilled. He wriggled, suggestively. He could feel Sherlock’s smirk fading in the way the detective’s body stilled into uncertainty. 

John held back a giggle. May as well go for it now, he decided, and with soldier-like determination,he squirmed seductively against Sherlock’s thigh. He breathed out, loudly.

Now, up until the present, John had taken great pains to disguise the simmering attraction he had to his best friend. Just before Sherlock ‘died’ John had been on the verge of confronting both his feelings and his flat mate, to bring it out in the open, to risk rejection and declare his love. That all went out the window for two years, and it seemed like the moment had passed. 

But once Mary had assured and reassured him that he was free to dote on Sherlock as much as he liked, well, perhaps… Let’s just say the idea hadn’t entirely faded from John’s erotic imagination. And, ever a man to make the best of a bad situation, John moaned a bit as he rubbed his lengthening self against the strangely inanimate Sherlock Holmes. 

====

Sherlock, meanwhile, was off in a mind state much like the one when John asked him to be best man. He was absorbed completely by the inner processing of new information, and there was currently no bandwidth for outgoing communication. He imagined asking John what he was doing, but dismissed this option, because he knew exactly what John was doing. To him, right now. 

Sherlock’s enormous brain was also processing the slide of silk dressing gown across his thighs as Watson squirmed artfully parting said silk and loosening the sash, in effect baring Sherlock’s thighs, belly and increasingly insistent erection. 

Holmes was puzzled. One moment he had skillfully pinned John on his lap in a compromising position. That should have given him the upper hand. Hands. He had hands. Where were they?

One had still pressed down on Johns back. The other held his left knee preventing escape. Sherlock could release him. The rasp of rough denim against his thigh, his cock, was maddening, irritating. Why wasn’t he releasing the man?

He could just fling him off. He wanted to swat John’s arse, smack him hard, shock him into stopping. That denim had to go: he wanted skin on skin like he had not felt since he had decided years ago that sex was too much of a distraction to allow. 

Finally his brain sorted all this out and Sherlock released John’s leg, seized him by the belt, and hoisted him into a more vertical position. John knelt between his knees, his flushed face looking up into his. Johns glance devoured Sherlock’s eyes, mouth, chin, his gaze traveled downward, John’s hands were free, they were stroking his arms, no, they were loosening the dressing gown and it slipped from Sherlock’s shoulders and he had never felt so naked, and while his brain cataloged all this fascinating data he felt like time had slowed down so much but…

Oh. OH.

John slipped Sherlock’s cock between his lips and just held him there, in the warm cave of his mouth, tongue gently circling, exploring, slowly increasing the suction, the wetness. That tongue: it was a heat seeking probe that found his slit and pressed for entrance, and just when that sensation was blowing Sherlock’s mind John sucked him deeper and laved the flat of his tongue firmly along the underside, sucking powerfully, pulling an involuntary buck from his hips and somehow he had his hands in Johns hair and and oh, oh, ah the world is made of stars.

====

John continued to suck gently until Sherlock’s orgasm had faded, nuzzling in his lap, inhaling the warm scent of him. He placed a kiss on Sherlock’s softening cock as he raised his head. He felt Sherlock release his grip on John’s hair, and leant back against the coffee table and gazed up. 

Up into the face of the man he loved, stunned and momentarily beyond words, which made him even more appealing. Disheveled, at a loss for words Sherlock Holmes was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. That face, always so active, so discerning, categorizing and labeling and judging, was at this moment so open, so beautifully bewildered. 

John caught his gaze, and smiled. Sherlock looked puzzled then twisted his mouth -- John had seen Sherlock’s father make the same funny face – before chancing a smile of his own. Then he opened his mouth and John could tell what was coming, and longing to keep this moment a while longer, knelt up and pressed a finger to Sherlock’s lips.

“Shhhh,” he hissed as he moved close enough for a kiss. 

“Don’t say another word, unless…”

“You are wearing far to many clothes, John.”

Watson looked down and had to agree. He stood, and allowed Sherlock’s long fingers to pull his shirt free and unfasten his belt.


End file.
